


electric rain

by Neveryawn (Lamora)



Series: Monster [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Crossover, D/s, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamora/pseuds/Neveryawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I killed people. It’s been years. So many years. But I still see their faces at night.</i>
</p><p>“You aren’t to blame for how you were taught to be.”</p><p>  <i>I’m a murderer.</i></p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	electric rain

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much every single bandmember you can think of out to kill each other. Should be fun. Hope you enjoy.

_I don’t remember much._

“That doesn’t matter. You can just tell me what you do remember.”

 

_It rained sparks._

 

“Sorry?”

 

_It rained sparks and fire, and I still have trouble today trying to figure out if it was worth it._

 

“If what was worth it?”

 

_Getting out of there alive. That sounds selfish, doesn’t it?_

 

“Your actions ended the most horrible era of carnage the world had ever seen.”

 

_I killed people. It’s been years. So many years. But I still see their faces at night._

 

“You aren’t to blame for how you were taught to be.”

 

_I’m a murderer._

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

\--

 

Brendon’s mother huffed a little, staring at her fingernails and resolutely ignoring the taller boy standing in front of her.

 

Brendon shuffled his feet. _How much more time do we have?_

 

As if on cue, the Peacekeeper stuck his head through the door he had left ajar. “Two minutes,” he said, eyeing the two of them curiously before retreating.

 

“Well, we hope you do us proud,” Grace said, finally meeting his eyes. “Your father sends his love from the office.”

 

Brendon nodded once.

 

“You’ve been training all your life for this. It’d be a shame if you didn’t realize your full potential.”

 

She paused for longer, as if waiting for Brendon to speak. Brendon said nothing.

 

“Remember your pressure-points, what your father taught you. We have a victor in the family, you know.”

 

Brendon knew. He had known this since he was seven. It was a favorite bedtime story throughout all of his childhood.

 

“Your grandfather on your father’s side. We haven’t been reaped since. Carry on the family legacy, Brendon.”

 

Brendon hated his mother’s plastered-on, reassuring smile, wrinkles in all of the wrong places along her mouth. It looked like a grimace, even in better lighting. It practically yelled, _I don’t expect you to survive, so there’s really no point in this._ He shifted from foot to foot, bringing up a hand to his mouth to rub around his lips, a nervous tic to check for lipstick smears. His hand came away empty, and he belatedly remembered the custom not to wear makeup on the day of the reaping.

 

Nicki had shown up in full makeup, but she was Nicki. She was the girl who had campaigned as a nine-year-old to remove the gender-segregated reaping style because it excluded other genders. She was Nicki.

 

“It’s not _disrespectful,_ y’know,” Brendon had heard her say in the crowd a few yards from where he was standing. “The Capitol doesn’t _own_ me.” She cocked her hip and kept the defiance in her eyes like her own protective mask. Brendon had watched her, expecting her glare to slink back down her face as her name is picked from the reaping, but it didn’t. If anything, it grew in strength.

 

“Anyway, it’s just about time,” Grace finished and strides for the door. The peacekeeper had barely walked back through the door when she passed him by. The peacekeeper looked back at Grace’s retreating form, already halfway down the hallway, presumably confused at the lack of tears or parting hug. Brendon bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing; this was probably the only time he would ever see a befuddled peacekeeper.

 

With a cough, the peacekeeper grabbed his arm and pushed him through the door to the right of the one through which Grace had left.

 

 

\--

 

“Good afternoon.”

 

“Gamemaker Hoppus,” twelve voices chorused at once from the computer monitor facing him.

 

“Welcome, mentors,” he beamed widely at the camera in front of them. No one replied.

“I know these meetings aren’t exactly _normal_ each year, but I wanted to announce a change in rules.”

 

“Rules?” A voice from the bottom right corner. The camera feeds on Mark’s screen were laid in three rows of four. Jimmy Urine blinked up at him from the feed coming from District Twelve. Mark gritted his teeth. Jimmy Urine was trouble, but he needed a new tribute from District Twelve to win a game in order for him to have someone to replace Jimmy. Then, he could have the damn man executed.

 

“Sorry, Victor Urine,” Mark said, emphasizing the last word. “I mean to say changes in protocol, regarding the events leading up to the Games and the events during.”

 

He eyed each separate video feed, waiting for any other comments before beginning. None came.

 

“Right, then. First of all, the Capitol’s viewers have been polled, and, as happens every decade or so, tastes in entertainment are shifting. In order to meet the needs of the audience, we’re going to change how things happen. The main idea of the Games will remain the same, of course, as is good for the country, yadda yadda. You’re Victors, you’ve heard this before.”

 

Mark allowed himself an ingratiating smile at the screen. The only people who returned it were the mentors from Districts 1 and 2, Jon Walker and Brandon Flowers.

 

“So. They want more _drama_. Ever since that bit with the lovers from District 12 happened, the Capitol wants more _lovey-dovey feelings_ than mindless carnage. Of course, mindless carnage is nice. But _emotional_ bloody carnage? Entertaining as hell.”

 

“So we’re going to psychologically maim them as well as physically maim them. Lovely,” Z said from District 10’s window.

 

“The Games already psychologically maim them,” Joe spoke up from District 11. “This is like adding insult to injury.”

 

“Anyway,” Mark continued on. The mentors fell silent. “There are two main changes. We’re going to organize social hours from a day-to-day basis during training. Fully broadcasted. Easier to form alliances, fuck around, fall in love, whatever.”

 

“This is fucked up.” Jimmy. Again.

 

“It defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” Rivers Cuomo observed from District 3. “The whole idea is that there’s a mindless sort of detachment from tribute to tribute. If they bond, no one’s going to want to kill each other.”

 

“You could impose a time limit,” Jon offered. “If we don’t have a winner in x amount of time, we could blow the place up. Or something.”

 

“Let’s play 'spot the sociopath.' Found him!”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Twelve.”

 

“Stop fighting and listen to the gamemaker!”

 

“Yeah, okay, Ryan. I mean, Four,” Brandon muttered. “Like your delicate ass could take any of us in a fight, anyway. How did you survive, again? Painting yourself into a wall for a month?”

 

“It was a week! It wasn’t _painting_ , it was strategic _camoufla—“_

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Mark slammed his hand down on his desk. He winced. He’d forgotten he was sitting at one of the granite countertops of the Capitol buildings and not the desk of rickety wood he had at home. “All of you. I’m not done. The second main change will be made to the length of the games themselves. The more time the Tributes spend alive with each other in the arena, the more drama there’s going to be.”

 

There was a long silence at this pronouncement.

 

And then finally, “Well, that makes no fucking sense.”

 

No arguments followed Andy Hurley’s outburst. Apparently, he’d said something that all of the Districts’ mentors agreed with.

 

“Hear me out, at least,” Mark said, irritated. “There will be a five day amnesty period. They aren’t allowed to kill each other in that five-day period, just face off what we have in store for them arena-wise. After those five days, they’re allowed to murder the shit out of each other if they please.”

 

“And with the non-violence policy, they’ll have more time to form alliances. The killings will come at a slower pace, because they will be more attached to each other,” Jon finished for him, his eyes dark in front of his camera.

 

Mark nodded, meeting Jon’s eyes on the screen. Jon won the Games for District 1 as a nineteen year old and immediately rose to the role of mentor without a single year’s rest. Mark had been intrigued at the young man, so he’d gone back and looked through all of the recordings of Jon’s Games. He had used nothing but an axe to maim and kill with an intensity that had unsettled even Mark’s five-year-old son, fresh out of desensitization therapy.

 

“How are you going to get them to kill each other after they get all cozy with each other?” Josh Franceschi asked from District 5’s window.

 

“Map modifications,” came a voice from District 8’s window before Mark could respond. He nodded to confirm. “Will the rules for Victor stay the same?” Janelle asked as an afterthought.

 

“No, we’re going to have two Victors, provided that they’re in close proximity with each other when they’re the only two left. District doesn’t matter.”

 

“That might unite the Districts, or at least help,” Brandon said. “Isn’t that the opposite of what we want to happen?”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Jimmy mumbled.

 

“The first bond they make is with the person from their own District, so it’s more likely they’ll try to protect that person. All in all, it’s a gamble, but this year’s Games are going to be the best yet,” Mark whistled appreciatively. “I’ve seen videos of this year’s Tributes, and, hoo boy, we’re in for a _treat_.”

 

An awkward silence followed.

 

“That’s it,” Mark said.

 

One by one, the screens blinked out. Jon, Jimmy, and Mark were left staring at each other. Jon closed the window a beat later. Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, but a banging noise on his end makes him turn around to look at his train compartment door.

 

“Tributes making noise,” Jimmy said to the camera, almost conversationally. “I’ve got fierce ones this year.”


End file.
